


The Virtue of Surrender

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Chì bì | Red Cliff (2008)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the battle at Red Cliff, Sun Quan visits Zhuge Liang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Virtue of Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heinrichfrei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heinrichfrei/gifts).



The lotus flowers have died and the oranges are almost in season when Sun Quan stirs himself from his palace and sets out to visit Zhuge Liang. It’s been almost four years since they met, four years since the battle at Red Cliff. It feels like a lifetime, a span in which he’s gained much and lost almost everyone he holds dear. Conquest must always be balanced with loss, but never did he think that he, a victor, would be the one to mourn.

He wrote to Zhuge Liang often at first. Over time the correspondence became less frequent, and the few letters he sent this year were little more than poems that expressed what he could not. Zhuge Liang’s replies always took the form of glosses on the poems, a delicate unravelling of emotion that each time concluded with an invitation. Only now does Sun Quan take up that invitation, only now as summer tips into autumn and the nights begin to cool.

Zhuge Liang has returned to his home in Longzhong, to the house where Liu Bei went three times to rouse the sleeping dragon and persuade him to war. The region was once under Cao Cao’s command, but now the land is held by Liu Bei, a prize wrenched from the fields of battle.

Sun Quan notes its proximity to the Wu border and feels aggrieved that he hasn’t thought to do this before.

The mountains are slightly cooler than the plains. Here the clouds turn into rain-showers that drench Sun Quan’s retinue; here the smell of wet earth and cinnamon trees takes the place of the rich scent of river mud. The landscape is familiar even though it’s unknown. _This could be Wu_ , Sun Quan thinks, and the thought resonates deep inside.

Zhuge Liang’s house is tucked away on the mountainside, half a day from anywhere. It’s built on the edge of a pool fed by a high, narrow waterfall and surrounded by bamboo and larch and gingko. Cicadas thrum a constant chorus, and swallowtail butterflies of black and red and vivid blue sit poised on flowers Sun Quan can’t name. Before he reaches the house, he dismisses his retainers. This reunion needs no witnesses.

The final ascent is steeper than he imagined. He’s out of breath when he arrives.

Zhuge Liang is waiting for him at the door, his hands folded one over the other, the hawk’s wing fan held loosely in his grasp. He wears simple cream-coloured robes. His eyes shine, betraying him, though the rest of his expression remains placid.

“Your Highness,” he says, bowing. “You are welcome in my humble home.”

Sun Quan had rehearsed ten thousand things to say at this moment, but now his thoughts have all fled and he can’t say anything. He stands and stares, helpless, until Zhuge Liang reaches out and murmurs, “My lord”, so modest yet not-modest at the same time.

“Yes,” says Sun Quan, stepping over the threshold and into the main hall. “Yes, Kong Ming”—and he means _yes, I am your lord_ , because that’s what he’s wanted for the past four years, to have Zhuge Liang as his own, to marry loyalty with desire and make Zhuge Liang wholly his man in every sense.

Zhuge Liang withdraws from him, taking two steps backward in the direction of what Sun Quan can see is a bedchamber. The offer is subtle but unmistakable. Sun Quan knows he should exercise restraint; he should acknowledge the suggestion but not act on it; they should instead sit and take tea and talk like civilised men. It’s on the tip of his tongue to laugh and shatter the moment, to turn the sudden intensity of emotions in another direction, but why should he delay any longer?

He catches at Zhuge Liang’s sleeve, slides possessive fingers over the skin of his wrist, and takes the hawk’s wing fan. “You will not need this now,” he says, and lets it drop to the floor.

* * *

Later, when they have imprinted their scent upon each other’s skin and slaked their greedy mutual thirst, the capacity for rational speech returns and they sit in conversation. Sun Quan wears his travelling robes across his shoulders, mindful of his dignity but too certain of further intimacy to dress again.

“Where are your retainers?” Zhuge Liang asks as he prepares tea.

Sun Quan waves a hand. “In the village. I thought it best that they didn’t come here and see—”

Zhuge Liang selects tight-curled leaves from a small earthenware jar. “You are ashamed of me.”

“No.” Sun Quan hadn’t thought of it like that. “Kong Ming, you speak nonsense. No man could be ashamed of you.”

“Then you are ashamed of your emotions.” The words come out too sharp, too watchful, and Zhuge Liang’s gaze is fixed upon the teacups. “Or perhaps you are ashamed of your motives in coming here.”

“Perhaps.”

Zhuge Liang relaxes at that admission and smiles. “Let us not argue.”

Sun Quan covers his surprise. He wants to say they weren’t arguing, but he knows they were and have been since the moment they embraced. He looks around the house, noticing for the first time the pleasing arrangement of furniture, the harmony of decoration. “Where is your servant?”

“In the village.” Another smile. “I thought it best to tend to your needs myself.”

They both laugh. Zhuge Liang pours the tea and they drink in silence, but this time it’s comfortable.

At length Sun Quan says, “Where is the foal Zhou Yu gave you? It must be almost full grown now.”

More tea is poured, then Zhuge Liang says, “I gave Meng Meng to my younger brother. He has ambitions enough to warrant the need for a strong mount, whereas I wish only for a return to solitude and peace.”

Sun Quan snorts. “Come, now, you expect me to believe that! Liu Bei would never permit a man of your abilities to sit idle for long.”

“There must always be balance in life.” Zhuge Liang holds his teacup in both hands, his fingertips pressed to the rim. “My lord does not begrudge me the respite of a month or two. Especially not now, when he has won this land from Cao Cao’s retreat.”

“It’s so close to Wu.” The words slip out, unbidden. Sun Quan doesn’t mean to say it. He bends his head, focuses on his tea, agitating the cup so the leaves move in the hot water.

Zhuge Liang looks at him through a twist of steam, amusement on his face. “Are you angry that I didn’t visit you, or angry that you didn’t come to me?”

Relief makes Sun Quan laugh in response. Zhuge Liang has misunderstood him. The restless thought, that unworthy flicker of possessive greed, has been passed over in favour of a simpler desire.

* * *

Sun Quan wakes to the sound of a qin. He lies still, warm darkness pressing around him, until he makes out shapes and realises the faint glow of light beyond the door is not the moon but candlelight. Strings are plucked and swept, a familiar tune sliding into an unfamiliar melody. He wraps himself in the nearest garment—Zhuge Liang’s cream-coloured top robe—and ventures out of the bedroom.

He finds Zhuge Liang in the main hall, kneeling before a low table set with candles and incense and a trailing pink and white orchid with petals faceted like gemstones. The qin is settled across Zhuge Liang’s lap. His hair is loose and he wears under-trousers and a tunic, with Sun Quan’s travelling cloak spread over his knees beneath the qin.

Sun Quan doesn’t think his footsteps were audible, but Zhuge Liang stops, head cocked, and lifts a hand to halt him. The memory of the notes lingers and fades.

Just after the last note dies, Zhuge Liang says, “Listen.”

Sun Quan listens, but hears only the echo of silence. He can’t even hear the rush of the waterfall. “There’s nothing.”

“Yes. The ten thousand sounds of emptiness.” Zhuge Liang starts to play again, picking out simple melodies and weaving into them complex variations. “It is too late an hour for me to play well; therefore forgive these small tunes.”

“I would listen to the meanest melody of yours with only delight in my heart.” Sun Quan kneels opposite Zhuge Liang on the other side of the table. He nods at the candles and incense and orchid. “These—are they offerings to Music?”

Zhuge Liang inclines his head. “During certain seasons, a gentleman should play the qin at night to fill the restless hours. To accompany his songs, to ensure he plays not for selfish pleasure but in the cultivation of virtue, he should direct his playing towards a suitable muse—this orchid, perhaps, or the scent of incense, or—”

“A lover?” Sun Quan suggests playfully.

“Not a lover.” Zhuge Liang’s gaze drops. “That would be vulgar, no matter how great the affection or how lofty the beloved.”

Sun Quan absorbs this. “Zhou Yu could only play the qin when something weighed on his mind.” The remark brings with it a sense of grief not fully assuaged; it’s also a question, a delicate thing as fragile as the orchid.

“I play when I cannot sleep.” Zhuge Liang looks up, bright-eyed once more. “It has been a long time since I’ve shared my bed. I am unaccustomed to it.”

“Then I disturb you.”

Zhuge Liang’s smile is soft as he bends to stroke at the silken strings.

“Kong Ming...” Sun Quan feels helpless again, as if he’s been judged for a decision he hasn’t made yet. “I don’t want us to be enemies.”

A ripple of sound from the qin. On the table, the slow, unfurling collapse of wax marks the hour. From the notches left on the tallest candle, Sun Quan calculates that it’s halfway through the hour of the Ox, when the night is at its darkest and most dangerous. No wonder it’s necessary to fill the abyss with music and light and the sweetness of incense.

“We wouldn’t be enemies,” Zhuge Liang says at last. “We would be conqueror and conquered.”

“I don’t want that, either,” Sun Quan says, and knows it for a lie. He would take the Shu kingdom gladly and add it to the Southlands, but he wants Zhuge Liang more—hungrily, greedily. Cao Cao lamented Liu Bei’s skill in retaining the best generals, but Sun Quan envies his brother-in-law the counsel of Zhuge Liang. Now that Zhou Yu has gone, Sun Quan feels cut adrift, and his temper is too easily roused. He longs for calm, for the serenity of a pool when the ripples have faded. He longs for Zhuge Liang, but he does not know if he has the patience or the talent to win him over.

* * *

Next morning, Sun Quan wakes to the pattern of sunlight behind wisps of mountain mist. He’s alone again. He dresses, eats the breakfast his host has laid out for him, then ventures onto the slopes of the mountain to find Zhuge Liang picking mulberry leaves. His fingers are stained and rubbed; there’s dirt beneath his nails and his hair is tangled, his clothes bunched and striped with earth.

It’s the first time Sun Quan has seen his beloved in the guise of a farmer, and he doesn’t like it.

Zhuge Liang clambers down from the tree and picks up his basket of leaves. “I keep silkworms,” he says by way of unnecessary explanation, and leads Sun Quan to a shed a little way distant. Inside is a beaten earth floor, the edges lined with straw, and in the centre are thousands of silkworms devouring with single-minded purpose the mulberry leaves scattered upon them. The room smells damp and green, and mosquitoes whine as counterpoint to the rustling melody of the silkworms’ tiny jaws.

Sun Quan stares. He’s never seen a silkworm before. Such simple things are kept from him, and he feels unbalanced by his lack of knowledge. “Why?” he asks. “Why do you keep them?”

Zhuge Liang strews fresh leaves over the floor, and they watch the silkworms rear and turn in response. “I admire them. Their lives are transitory, yet they have purpose. Unlike this humble insect, not all men can make silk out of their weavings.”

Uncertain, Sun Quan changes the subject. “There are things I need to say to you.”

“I would like to hear them.” Zhuge Liang crouches to coax a lone silkworm back from the demarcation of straw. “Please, my lord, tell me.”

Sun Quan shifts on his feet, feeling hemmed in by the small space of the hut. “The day you came to me proposing an alliance—do you remember what you said to me?”

“I said many things, not all of which have remained in my memory.”

“You said ‘surrender is not a matter of victory or defeat, but of virtue’.” Sun Quan pauses, then rushes on: “Would you, Kong Ming? Would you surrender to me?”

Still crouched on the floor, Zhuge Liang takes his time to reply. “I have already surrendered much to you, Highness. I do not think there is more I can give.”

“If I asked?” Sun Quan presses.

Zhuge Liang stands and looks at him. “Surrender by the governed leaves nothing for those who govern. Anything more invites tyranny, as I told you once before. All that remains is conquest and slavery.”

He pushes open the door and goes outside, leaving Sun Quan with the silkworms and the empty sound of their feeding.

* * *

Sun Quan takes his leave the next day.

They say nothing, no words of farewell, no formalities. They’d said all they needed to say yesterday, their conversation continued long into the night in silence, in the rhythm of their fucking and the tenderness of their touches, in the way their kisses moved from angry to melting to bitter to wet with the taste of tears.

Sun Quan doesn’t want to think this is goodbye. Last night he spun fantasies, dangerous dreams painted behind his eyelids; dreams in which he topples Liu Bei and sweeps into the kingdom of Shu and takes Zhuge Liang. Not as a prize, the way Cao Cao desired Xiao Qiao, but as a valued equal. In Sun Quan’s imagination, when he becomes Emperor, no longer will he permit Zhuge Liang to waste his abilities as a vassal living a simple life in the mountains. No—he will raise him up and make Zhuge Liang a Duke.

These fantasies shame him now in the piercing blade of sunlight. Sun Quan recalls Zhuge Liang’s unspoken responses, the arch and twist of their bodies as they struggled to annihilate one another with pleasure. Sun Quan looks at Zhuge Liang’s bruised lips and bed-softened hair and the shadows of tiredness darkening his eyes, looks at the way he moves as if still aching, and from this Sun Quan believes he’s the victor.

Before he leaves, Zhuge Liang gives him a bolt of silk, a deep-dyed crimson, woven with phoenix and dragons, the design so subtle that only the play of light over the cloth in one particular direction gives any indication of its existence.

Sun Quan accepts the gift. He sets off down the slope, conscious of the sound of rushing water and the scent of wildflowers. It takes all his willpower not to look back.

* * *

On his journey home to the palace, he stops at the house of a wealthy merchant who lives on the border. Curious about his gift, Sun Quan unpicks the braided cords tied around the silk and spreads it out upon his borrowed bed. Now he sees that it’s not a bolt of cloth at all but a robe, unornamented, its lines simple.

Zhuge Liang has given him his wedding robe.

Sun Quan stares at it for a long time, then sits on the bed and gathers the robe in his hands, holding it to his heart, pressing it to his lips. He hasn’t won anything, he realises. The battle has only just begun.


End file.
